


Verbatim

by Albuss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (If you squint really really hard?), An Ode to Smart Women, Aural Kink, Competence Kink, Department of Mysteries Employee Hermione Granger, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fashion Designer Pansy Parkinson, God I really love smart women, I had a bad week so I wrote the kind of smut I like to read, Inspired by Lucid (the legend dracoladon), Light Dom/sub, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Suit Kink, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Albuss/pseuds/Albuss
Summary: Hermione is always talking. Often, she is articulate, her sentences giddy with academic curiosity. Other times, she is utterly incoherent, babbling nonsense from within the throes of passion. When Pansy gets very, very lucky, Hermione is both at the same time.Or; Hermione get's home from a Magical Theory Conference. Pansy takes her apart, bit by bit, on the condition that she never stops speaking. A very well-fitted suit jacket might be involved.Inspired by this baby:Lucid
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	Verbatim

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lucid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26986222) by [dracoladon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoladon/pseuds/dracoladon). 



> This work is inspired by "Lucid" ( [dracoladon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoladon/pseuds/dracoladon) ). I highly suggest you check it out. That thing was a bit of an awakening for me not gonna lie...
> 
> I love nerds. I love being a nerd. I find it sexy when other people are smart. I feel sexy when I am smart. I would like to be on either side of this interaction. I just really, really like this concept, okay? 
> 
> This fluffy piece of smut is essentially Lucid, except with less entertaining snark and more boring feelings. I've been thinking about writing this for a long time, and I had a lot of fun. Let me know what you think in the comments! 
> 
> HUGE thanks to [Rosalee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilRising/pseuds/DevilRising) for the beta! 
> 
> As always, the characters and worldbuilding in this fic belong to JKR and the fandom as a whole. TRANS LIVES MATTER, and I do not condone the views of JK.

Pansy leans against the door jamb that bridges the foyer and the kitchen, one leg neatly crossed over the other. Her hands are clasped, patient and still, above her navel, but a pleasant swarm of Morpho-blue butterflies tickles her stomach.

She checks her watch; Hermione has been due to arrive home for half an hour. Pansy likely has another 10 minutes to wait. Leftover Thai is already warming beneath a stasis charm on the table, dished out onto plain white china beside an overflowing binder filled with Pansy’s sketches, samples, and designs from work. 

The flat glows dimly with warm yellow light from the low-hanging chandelier. In the corner, Hermione’s trainers are neatly stacked on a tray. Adjacent, Pansy’s platformed Docs are strewn on their sides, tracking dirt onto the hardwood where the soles haven't quite made it onto the doormat.

Pansy’s feet are bare, but she’s still dressed from her lunch date with Draco. A sharp, winged cat-eye frames her lashes, but she has already wiped her lipstick off in the bathroom; Hermione hates it when she has to scrub it off her skin in the shower.

The door swings open with a familiar ‘click’, stopping automatically before it hits the opposing wall. Hermione flounces through, locking-up behind her with an uncharacteristically ostentatious swish of her hand. It never ceases to amaze Pansy how a 13 hour day of unrelenting presentations could make her girlfriend so lively.

Pansy smirks. “How did it go, darling?”

Hermione grins, nodding imperiously. “Very well, actually. I went to a very interesting seminar on conservation of wild wand-wood forests. And, of course, I gave my session on the paper. It was very well received. I think this research might revolutionize the way healers approach magical core injury.”

“Hmm,” Pansy says, and it isn’t that she doesn’t find it interesting, because she really does; she just finds the way Hermione’s brows knit together and her shoulders square when she speaks, the way her voice loses all hesitation and cuts loud and clear through the air, infinitely more engaging. She is always so sure that the next word will come, well crafted and clever. 

Hermione pauses. “You think it’s dull, don’t you.”

“Mm. You’re never dull.” 

Hermione gives her an incredulous smirk.

“You’re sometimes dull,” she amends.

Usually, Hermione is reserved, organized in an obsessive, scattered way and racing ahead one step behind her own emotions. On days like these, however, she holds herself with the effect of a woman who knows that she is changing the world.

And Pansy loves it. When Hermione’s words are simple and straightforward, spoken carefully so that her or Harry or an occasional classroom of 6th years could understand, Pansy shivers. When they become fast and erratic, spilling from Hermione’s lips in jargoned complexities and equations, though, Pansy swoons.

The thing is, she likes that her girlfriend is smart; it doesn’t make her feel stupid, it makes her feel empowered.

Pansy also likes that, even when her phrases string apart and all punctuation is lost, Hermione never stops talking. In the throes of passion, she is always loud. The minutes between when Hermione’s musings transform from eloquent to babbled nonsense are a beautiful, beautiful thing.

“You heated up dinner!” Hermione exclaims. “Thank you, thank you. You're truly an angel. I show up late chattering about work and you’ve stayed up waiting. I love you, you know that, right?”

“Dinner can wait,” Pansy responds, tongue on the back of her teeth as the words shape low and dangerous in her throat.

A spark lights in the honey-brown irises of Hermione’s eyes. She undoes the single button of her smart, plaid sport jacket, the lapels falling open to the sides of her breasts. 

“Keep the jacket on,” Pansy adds. “Everything else off.”

A small whine escapes the back of Hermione’s throat and her long, nimble fingers trace the brass clasp of her suit trousers. Pansy watches, studies, as the tailored waistband is dragged beneath the swell of her arse and the feminine divots of her hip bones. Hermione tilts back her head on a sharp breath, exposing the elegant tendons of her long neck, and Pansy swallows a groan.

“How-- how do you want me,” Hermione says, already dazed and breathy; she knows what is coming, doesn’t bother trying to hide it. 

Pansy steps closer, the porch-light filtering through the windows in the entryway and reflecting off her sleek bob. Pushing the jacket from Hermione’s shoulders and folding it in the crook of her arm, she caresses the abalone buttons of her white oxford shirt, undoing them from the top down with gentle force. “Talking,” she replies. “I want you talking.”

Hermione steps carefully from where her trousers are pooled at her feet, and, taking advantage of her unsteady footing, Pansy yanks her closer, reaching inside of her shirt and unclasping her bra with a deft tug. Hermione gasps, allowing her weight to shift and for fabric to rumple against Pansy’s hip. With an audible swish in the silent flat, her remaining clothes fall to the ground.

Pansy pushes the silky gray twill of the suit jacket back into Hermione’s warm hands, watches as the elbows crease when her arms slide back through and the shoulders mold perfectly to her frame. With the button still undone, her breasts remain exposed, dark, flushed nipples in contrast to the cool brown of her skin. The lacy band of her knickers meets the peplum hem of the jacket just below her natural waist. Pansy recognizes one of her own designs in the delicate strappy details.

“What would you like me to talk about?” Hermione asks, lips coy and pursed.

Pansy licks the smirk from Hermione’s mouth, tracing the supple seam with her tongue. With both thumbs she caresses her hips, following the stitching on the panties to where it meets above her tailbone. “Your research. I want you to talk about your research.”

“What abou-- oh!” Hermione squeals as she is spun, pressed back-first into the wall. Pansy lunges forward to claim her mouth once more, pulling down the knickers as she goes. Goosebumps rise in their wake as they slide down Hermione’s legs.

She clutches at Pansy’s shoulders, the firm pads of her fingers digging into the muscle—Hermione is in no way a weak woman; in fact, she has picked up power lifting rather recently. Pansy has been teasing her over it relentlessly, but she thinks the single-mindedness of the sport suits Hermione’s overactive mind quite well. Hermione lifts herself off the ground, wrapping both legs around Pansy’s waist and locking them at the ankle. Pansy holds her up, one hand splayed and squeezing at her arse. They spin again, walking backwards until Pansy’s feet hit soft carpet. The foyer opens into a high-ceilinged living room, and she lays Hermione down on the cream-coloured settee. 

Hermione moans, high and sweet, and Pansy chases the fluttering pulse below her ear, sucking hard and pressing kisses down the narrow column to her collar-bone. “Anything,” she says. “You can talk about anything, but if you stop, so will I.”

“What? Wha-- ah-- what do you mean?” Hermione is already panting, a light sheen of sweat glossing her flushed skin. Even now, her voice is liquid, heavy, confident in a curious, academic way that makes Pansy’s heart swell and mind flip; it feels like falling, like falling asleep, like a roller coaster in the rain.

“Tell me what you told the people at your conference. I want to hear what you said, how you spoke. But you have to keep talking, or I’ll stop touching you.” Pansy runs her ring finger through Hermione’s cleavage, teasing the sensitive skin with the edge of her nail.

“Okay. Okay. Ungh.” Hermione schools her features; she has the uncanny ability to shut everything out when it comes to her work. “Well, the magical core of a Wizard is a sort of energy field inside the body. Usually it is in equilibrium and is dormant, but when--”

Pansy swirls around the peak of a nipple with the tip of her tongue, repeating the tight motion once more before sucking lightly. Hermione’s muscles seize, her back arching to meet Pansy’s mouth. Her sentence cuts short as she curves her lips into a long whine. Pansy pulls off with a pop, stilling her hands and removing them from Hermione’s ribs. She waits patiently.

“Ah, ah. In the-- when a spell is cast it becomes charged and polarized. This charge creates a force on the magical particles and-- oh, Merlin-- and, and, and the human magical core is very decentralized, and that’s why we need wands. Different wizards have different focal points, though, where magic is most drawn when they cast spells-- fuck, Pansy, fuck, don’t stop-- and if someone has spell damage maybe they can re-map their focal points and-- shit, Godric, please.”

Pansy nips down Hermione’s stomach, the intricate stitching of the jacket scratching her pale cheeks. She has straddled her girlfriend’s lap, hands running up her legs possessively and just barely dipping between her thighs before moving back down. 

“Go on, love,” she prompts, dropping to her knees at the foot of the sofa and opening Hermione’s legs in front of her. She drags her tongue up the sensitive tendon where silky folds meet inner-thigh. Hermione shudders, her eyes glazing and rolling back as a wave of pleasure races down her body, jerking her hips and pointing her toes. The diffused ambient light causes the shadows of her face to glow as words and moans are formed in the elegant curve of her mouth. She is achingly beautiful, achingly brilliant.

“Experiments,” Hermione continues abruptly. “We did fucking experiments in the, oh, fuck, Pansy, touch me touch me please--” Pansy runs one finger along her slit, collecting the liquid that has pooled there and licking it off. “--In the labs. The experiments in the labs. We made concentrated magic, oh shit, oh, oh, and at Mungo’s, we did, like acupuncture and shit for spell damage, please, please, I’ll say anything, just, fuck, I can’t.”

Pansy pulls both fingers from where they are pressed inside of Hermione, curving to hit her spot as she rolls her hips into it. Giving a last lick to the side, to just below, to directly on her clit, Pansy sits up. “I think you can,” she says. “For me you can. You will.”

“When people call you bitchy, this is what they mean,” Hermione breathes between involuntary mewls.

“Really?” Pansy drawls. “I thought you said it was because of the patriarchy.”

Hermione bucks, desperate for any friction she can find. “Didactic bint. I’m talking, I’m talking. Touch me.”

The corner of Pansy’s mouth twitches upward. ‘Glass houses,’ she thinks, but instead she just whispers an exaggerated “As you wish, my dear.”

Pansy licks a long, firm stripe, forcing her tongue as deep as it can go before moving up and replacing it with her fingers. Everything feels too hot, and blood roars in her ears. She groans against Hermione’s clit, the vibrations reverberating through her body. Hermione whines, sharp and startled but melting into blissed moans. 

Pansy is so turned on, so enthusiastically in the moment, that she doesn’t even notice when Hermione’s incoherent mutters dissolve into a broken stream of keens and curses. Her hand tightens on Hermione’s hip, absently strokes over her breast. It takes a summation of any and all self control she has ever had to pull back.

“Nghh. Plea-- nnnnghh,” Hermione begs, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Tell me about the wand-wood seminar,” Pansy pushes, eager to continue, eager to taste and bite and lose herself in the sweetness, the nutty tang of coffee and Hermione. 

“Yes, yes, wandwood,” she slurs, drunk and unrestrained, content in the utter transparency and intimacy of her incoherence. 

“No one else ever sees you like this. No one else but me. So beautiful. So pliant,” Pansy murmurs. She hasn’t meant to be heard, to say it out loud, but she doesn’t care either way.

“Yes,” Hermione breathes. “Yes.”

“You love to beg. Only me. Tell me about the wand-wood, Hermione. So gorgeous; so perfect.”

It is in the juxtaposition, Pansy thinks, that makes these moments slow in time, stick in her head long past climax. The sharpness of the suit, the vocabulary, the subject matter, combined with Hermione’s prone, shivering body and intervening strings of curses.

Pansy curves her fingers in and out, speeds up as Hermione grinds her arse up and down with increasing fervor. “Forests in France, Germany, wood isn't farmed. Oh, fuck, oh Pansy. Branches harvested. Why wands have knots. Nghh mmm fuck. Merlin. Trees are special. Magical signature. Cause Ley Lines near them. Carved the wood. Magic can go through it. Fuck-- oh, oh, wanna come. Baby, gonna come. Shit, shit. Pine, hemlock-- fuck, Pans-- fir, birch, cedar, yew, beech. Ah, fuck, holly. Fucking holly.”

Pansy knows not all of those trees grow in Germany. Hell, she doesn’t even think they all grow on the continent, but she doesn’t stop. “Come for me, baby. I’ll keep going,” she whispers against Hermione’s folds. 

She flicks her tongue, fingers no longer pumping but teasing the entrance, stretching it gently. As her rhythm steadies, quickens, Hermione’s moans peter into heaving breaths, her chest rising and falling in uneven staccato surges. The satin lining of the jacket catches the light with each movement, refracting into Pansy’s peripheral vision.

Pansy unzips her skirt with a shaky free hand, shoving aside her knickers and rubbing over her clit frantically. The warmth that has settled in her gut, at the base of her head, spreads outwards, heat flooding her limbs with electricity, current accelerating until breakers threaten to burn.

It is over in seconds, Hermione falling limp and loose with her chin tilted towards the chandelier, the one Pansy brought with her from the estate and that Hermione still hates. Pansy collapses forward, cheek pillowed on the slack muscle of a thigh.

She is dizzy with it, tongue tied and floating in the sort of post-orgasmic haze that makes people think they are in love. Except Pansy is in love; this she is lucid enough to know. 

Hermione pets through her hair. “Was that enough talking for you? I’m hoarse.”

Pansy pulls herself to her feet with a groan. “I’ll make you chamomile and honey,” she says. “Get in bed, you’ve got to be exhausted.”

She yawns widely. “Not really,” she replies, and Pansy would bet a sickle that she actually believes it.

Pansy smiles. “Straight after Emperor’s Cashew, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well? Did you like it? That's okay lol, I literally just wrote this for myself.


End file.
